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'Twas a most mysterious package, sent first class. The motorcycle courier had looked out of breath, saying he the delivery company had been ordered to send it with every speed. Ordered. Perhaps threatened.

The package, once unwrapped, was an ice box.

And inside the ice box was a jar of frozen blood, complete with a note. It was handwritten, and elegant.

Dear Ms. James,

My name is Winston Welsh. I am not a well man.

In my bold endeavours for health I have read much about less conventional medicine, the supernatural, and so on.

And I have dug deep into my family history, in search of an understanding of my haematological ailment, for no doctor understands it.

I have come to believe (although I may be crazed and clinging to delusional hope),

That you are a distant relative, and, maybe, a potential cure.

Despite the remote possibility of my conclusion being true (as opposed to birthed from a maddened mind),

I cling to hope.

If correct, I would hope that this jar would give you good road to New Orleans, where I currently reside...

Edited January 27 by Supercape

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Looking at the note and then the jar. She was glad it was frozen. Blood was her favorite smell. Warm blood had been known to make her a bit ravenous in attitude, but she had ways of controlling it for short periods of time. She stuck the letter on her fridge with a green C magnet. "I mean, I am a hero now, aren't I," she asked herself. She remembered the demon incident where she met two other heroes. "We did heroic things, saved people. Hell, I'm in hero housing." She walked over to the cooler and looked at the jar. "Alright, you don't have to pull my leg twice." She went into her dressing room and pulled together something nice and formal. A black silk dress with a lace top. Can't go looking like a casual plebeian. Though of course, Corporis' outfit would not be complete without a black leather jacket and shades. Also, her sidearm, the falchion she carried in her former unlife. "Prepared," she asked herself. She had her cell and wallet in one pocket. Her smokes and a sharp pocket knife in the other.

The bloody path lay before her. She knew not where this would lead. Only that she could do some good in the world. She went to the jar again. It was the doorway to this adventure. She took a deep breath and exhaled ending up in...

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In a crumbling old appartment in a crumbling old brick building. Cracks ran on the paint and the walls, but it was spacious. The furniture was old and ragged, but pleasant. Like the cuffed leather chair a man was sitting in, with a venous drip up his arm.

He was drinking bourbon and the drip had some pale blue liquid running into his arm. He was in his sixties, at a guess, looking thin and haphazard. Dark skin, mixed race, although more heavy on the African heritage by guess. White hair. A sheen of sweat over his body. His vest and pants kind of hung of him.

"Damn, it worked...I was right!" he said, energy in his heart but with a weak voice.

"Care for a drink?" he said, manners getting to him. He stopped, concerned. "I mean...a drink of bourbon. I ain't really got much else. You, don't drink blood do you? Not that the poison running through my veins is gonna be any good for anyone, alive or dead..."

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"This is kind of what I expected," Corporis grinned. The two personalities were not that different. Corporis was Jennifer cranked up to 11. Though Jennifer rested at about an 8.

She curtsied as Winston introduced himself. "I'd introduce myself," she said once it was over, "but you seem to have me all figured out. Jennifer James. Corporis. Whichever's good for you."

She looked at the glass he was offering. "Blood is an acquired taste really," she looked to him, "I'll take your offer of bourbon though."

She pointed to a seat, asking him without asking, "also, we must talk about the letter you sent me. How can I help you, Winston?" She removed her coat and propped it over her left arm where she could grab anything from the pockets with her right hand.

Edited January 27 by Thogphog

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"I have some kind of blood disease. Nobody can work it out. Inflammatory auto immune disease, they reckon. Spent my last dime trying to get a cure, but nobody figured it out" he nodded at the drip. "This stuff keeps my alive. Just. But as I am as weak as a man twice my age, and I ain't young, I'm telling you..." he sighed.

"So I got to getting desperate, see? Did my research. Now, I only got scraps, here and there. But...you a vampire or something?" he asked, unsure of himself. "I can scarcely believe it. You know. But that's what I figures, chasing down all the newspapers and official documents and this and that down here in New Orleans" he explained, still unsure.

"And from what I understand, you are my great grandmother cousin twice removed or somethin' Now I know that ain't much, but its all I got..."

He shrugged. "Got some real voodoo stuff down here, you know. Some crazy guy thinks he can cure me with your blood. He is all black magic and that. A year ago, I wouldn't have given him the time of day. Right now, its all I got...."

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She sipped the Bourbon as the man talked. It was strong of taste, but the vampirism knocked out the 'bad effects'. She'd get woozy if she drank too much, but not full on drunk. Also, no hangovers!

The man was deathly ill, and she was just a shot in the dark. "Vampire, Winston," she said mocking the idea of mocking the idea, "I'm not sure you know of my recent predicament!" She sat the drink down on the table and crossed her hands, "you see, I'm partly out of that racket now. Some science madman made me his guinea pig and I'm alive. Though I still have the fun stuff. Blood Manipulation." She looked to Winston for a quiet second, "something you might benefit from. Maybe you did do your homework."

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"Alive, eh? Guess the fates loaded your dice one way and mine the other" said WInston, rather bitter. "I ain't got more than scraps about your past, see. And even the scraps are petty scrappy" he sighed. "I just had this one chance..."

There was a sharp knock on the door.

"Oh hell, that can only be one person..." gasped Winston. "Tristan, he calls himself. It were him that put me on your scent, ah...so to speak. Says he has a great interest in blood lines. Probably lying. He had that feel to him, you know, like oily?" he explained.

"Open up, Winston! I know you're in there" said Tristan, from behind the door. It was a smooth, pleasant voice of a young man.